Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori - Frankie Dettori

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the time I was born on 15 December 1970 my parents’ marriage was virtually over. I learned much later that at the time of my birth my father was away riding that winter in Australia and he was already involved with Christine, who eventually became my stepmother. They had met that August when he was riding in Deauville. From the start she shared his ambition and he must have known that his marriage to my mother was coming to an end even before I was born.

      One of the problems was that my mother hated horseracing. To her it is a stupid pastime. She is a lovely person, beautiful, though completely down to earth, and having given up the nomad’s life she couldn’t settle to domesticity. She never really understood what drove my father—and later me—to devote our lives to making horses run as fast as they possibly can. He would come home full of himself explaining that he’d won the big race, and she’d reply ‘What race?’ In those days it was important for him to have someone who could share and enjoy his achievements and my mum couldn’t do that.

      Nor did she appreciate the strict disciplines involving my father’s weight, so he could never be sure his supper would be on the table each evening at 6.30 after a long day’s work. My father was so single-minded in his pursuit of success that he became more and more well-known and eventually my mum was being left behind. She loved him for who he was, not for the fact that he was the most famous jockey in Italy. By becoming so successful he needed somebody to take him further, and perhaps my mum wasn’t educated enough to take the next step with him. She preferred to retain her simple lifestyle as a housewife and couldn’t cope with the fame that came with all his high-profile winners. I don’t blame her for that. It’s just the way she is.

      The truth is that my parents probably married too early. They parted after six years and were quickly divorced. I don’t really remember them being together at all. After the split Sandra and I stayed with our mother in Milan. Dad lived no more than half a mile away with Christine but we didn’t see too much of him in the early days because he was so busy as a jockey. Then when I was five my parents had a summit meeting and decided that we should move in with him. It came down to economics. Mum felt he was much better placed to look after us and give us a decent start in life, but she made it clear she would always be there for us if we needed her.

      The switch to living with my dad was tough for me, even tougher for my sister, and toughest of all for Christine. When you are so young you love your mother and it was only natural that we should hate the person who took her place. I wanted to hate Christine, and at first I did my best to make her life a misery. Looking back now I realise that I was totally unfair to her, yet I have to admit she brought me up brilliantly. I really respect what she did for me in the most trying circumstances.

      I’m sure she made mistakes, too but it must be every woman’s nightmare to have to take over two unfriendly children who are not your own. Poor Christine must have been biting her lip every minute of the day. She was unbelievably strict, but I understand now that she was teaching us the right way even though we didn’t want to be told at that age—or in my case, at any age. It was: make your bed; clean your teeth; you must have a bath; get up when I tell you, blah, blah, blah. I might as well have been in the army. I had to be in bed early every night and my sister followed half an hour later. At least we had a break at the weekend when we went to stay with our mum. For me those were precious visits because I could sleep in until lunchtime if I wanted and could do pretty much what I liked. Then it would be back to reality with Christine on Sunday evening.

      It was even more distressing for Sandra who had lived with mum until she was eleven. I’m sure the breakdown of our parents’ marriage affected her more than me. She didn’t take kindly to being told by Christine what to do every minute of the day. She tried to fight the system and became quite rebellious—but she was usually the loser and would end up in tears as we went to bed in the little cottage next to Dad’s house.

      My mother eventually set up home with a cool guy called Salvatore. He was good looking, a bit of a hippy, and has always treated me like his own son. They are still together to this day. Mum doesn’t miss the glamour of life with my dad one bit. Far from it. She’s happily set in her ways, enjoys looking after Salvatore, and works as a cleaner for a wealthy family in Milan. She is a natural house woman, absolutely obsessed by dusting, cleaning, ironing and washing. In some ways she is a servant woman, born to be a slave to society because she is in her element doing these things. Every Monday she goes right round the house until everything is spotless. That makes her the happiest woman in the world.

      Soon after I moved in with Dad and Christine, he took me off for a few riding lessons. It didn’t appeal to me one bit, partly perhaps because I was so small. Ponies held no interest for me. I was always waking up early in the mornings and often Dad would find me playing in the dining room when he came down. Soon he bought me jodhpurs, boots and a riding jacket. Then came the first time he took me with him in the morning to the stables of Sergio Cumani, the trainer who provided him with hundreds of winners during their rewarding association.

      Once the racehorses had been exercised the lads would sometimes lift me onto the back of one that was tired and just walking round the yard while it cooled off. Being so light I’d cling to the mane while one of the lads held my leg just in case. Sergio would move among the horses after exercise, feeding them lots of sugar lumps. So this was my first experience of riding racehorses.

      I also had an early insight into the demands on international jockeys. In addition to riding in Italy and sometimes France, Dad began to make frequent trips to England and occasionally Ireland. This followed the decision by Carlo d’Alessio, a Roman lawyer for whom he rode in Italy, to keep a select team of horses at Newmarket with Henry Cecil—who would become champion trainer countless times in the years ahead.

      This development followed the appointment of Luca Cumani, Sergio’s son, as Cecil’s assistant. Years later Luca would play a pivotal role in my development as a jockey. Sergio trained for d’Alessio in Italy and had been in charge of the two-year-old colt Bolkonski when his first year’s campaign ended with an easy victory ridden by my dad in the Premio Tevere at Rome early in November 1974. That prompted d’Alessio to send the colt to Cecil. It proved to be an inspired decision even though Bolkonski was beaten on his debut in England in the Craven Stakes at Newmarket—often considered to be a trial for the 2,000 Guineas. Just over a fortnight later my dad rode him to victory at 33-1 in the Guineas, one of the five English Classics for three-year-olds that are the cornerstone of the racing calendar. Grundy, the horse he beat that day, went on to be one of the great horses of that decade.

      My father’s first Classic success in England was overshadowed by an ugly dispute over pay between the stable lads and trainers, which overflowed into bitter confrontation at Newmarket on Guineas’ weekend. The night before the race some of the strikers stole a bulldozer, crashed it through a fence and damaged the track. On the day of the race striking lads formed a picket line while others joined forces at the start in an attempt to disrupt the Guineas. When the horses were almost all loaded in the stalls the strikers promptly sat down right across the course. A delay followed while police sought to restore order.

      Eventually the runners formed a line just in front of the stalls and the starter let them go by waving a flag. My dad settled Bolkonski towards the rear of the pack before producing him with a timely run which gained the day by half a length over Grundy. Shortly after Bolkonski prevailed, Tom Dickie, the lad who’d looked after the horse from January until he joined the dispute, was carried shoulder high in front of the grandstand by his fellow strikers under heavy police escort.

      Bolkonski extended his year of excellence by winning at Royal Ascot and Glorious Goodwood for my father, before an unexpected defeat at Ascot in September. By then the combination of Cecil, d’Alessio and Dettori were convinced that they had another potential champion on their hands in Wollow, who won all four of his races as a two-year-old.

      Dad ended 1975 as the champion jockey of Italy once more with the added bonus of fourteen winners from forty-two rides in England. He briefly toyed with the idea of basing himself in England for a season, but it was a bit late in his career to be making significant changes and his commitments in Italy prevented the idea ever getting off the ground. He has always regretted that lost chance to ride full-time against the best jockeys in this country.

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